by Gwen Moffat
Harald wasn’t shocked by Perry. On the contrary, and unfazed by the punk hair-style, he was delighted. Here was a strange species, and in his own drawing-room. He regretted the absence of the dog; his Jack Russell had died recently, he explained to her, he couldn’t face the idea of a replacement as yet but it would have been nice to talk to a dog again. Perry was totally disarmed.
She had been shy, inclined to hostility when she saw the drawing-room with its crowded bookshelves and pictures, its parquet floor and old thin rugs. She found the room intimidating and she glowered as Harald stood up to greet her. The remark about the dog transformed the hard little face, intriguing Miss Pink who was struck by the contrast between the mannerly Rick Harlow and his urchin friend. He was watching the girl intently and Miss Pink found this a trifle disturbing. She guessed Perry was under-age. Anne could have had the same thought, observing the girl with a disapproval that bordered on antagonism.
‘I’ll bring Bags here tomorrow,’ Perry was saying. ‘I couldn’t bring him this evening because he smells.’
‘Put him in the bath,’ Harald said. ‘Bags?’
‘After that panther in The Jungle Book.’
‘Ah, Bagheera. How old is Bags?’
‘I don’t know. We only met in March. He followed me when I was walking through some village.’
Anne stared. ‘You didn’t try to find his owner?’
A shutter came down over Perry’s face. ‘How could I? I didn’t know where he lived. Anyway he liked me better than where he came from. Why would he follow me otherwise? Obviously he’d been abused.’
Ears were pricked at the term. ‘He’s fat enough,’ Rick said, smiling.
‘Feeding a dog don’t mean you’re above thrashing him.’
This was received in stiff silence; it seemed likely that even Harald guessed that she had more than dogs in mind. Anne glanced at Miss Pink. ‘Drink?’ she asked, trying to establish normality.
Perry asked for Coke but there was none. Anne was at a loss. Harald was interested. ‘You have to drink something,’ he pointed out, meaning it literally.
‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ she admitted. ‘I’m still thirsty.’ Then, with a burst of bravado: ‘I come over the mountains to that drowned village.’
Harald stroked his chin. His eyes went to Rick.
‘We met at Orrdale,’ he explained. ‘At the old village, not the big house. She walked over from Birkdale without a map.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ Perry protested. ‘Some bloke gave me a ride — ‘She stopped. This was not the kind of company that would be impressed by the episode with the Mondeo driver.
Rick rushed to the breach. ‘Harald, who is it that drives a grey Mondeo: some kind of civil servant or local government guy: fat, forty-ish, goes round Birkdale, probably all the dales?’
‘That’s Jonty Robson,’ Anne said. ‘He’s the VAT man; you know: Value Added Tax. He lives up by the golf course, here in Kelleth. Why?’
‘We had a confrontation at Orrdale — about parking. The fellow seems to be on a short fuse. Probably the heat. The water in the reservoir’s shrinking by the day. All the houses must be visible now, what’s left of them, just a foot or so of the old walls. I had the booklet with me today with that lovely photograph of the farm in high summer, shaded by huge trees, a walled track leading down to it. Now the trees are gone and all the rest is just piles of muddy stones.’
Anne nodded. ‘That was my home.’
Rick gaped. Harald looked concerned. Anne addressed Miss Pink. ‘Some of us didn’t move far. I went only five miles: from the head of the dale to the bottom, a cottage first, then the big house when we married.’ She regarded her husband fondly.
‘You lived in that place?’ Perry asked, awestruck. ‘That drowned village?’ She turned to Harald.
‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I was born lower down the dale. The house is still there, you must go and see it. There are ponies —’
Rick left him enthusing about his old home and came over to Miss Pink, carrying his glass of whisky.
‘What kind of books do you write?’ he asked, sitting down.
She liked that, no apology about not having read any of her work. ‘I write anything,’ she said. ‘Long or short, fiction or non-fiction, anything I’m asked to do, in fact. Popular stuff, you know, nothing technical. I’m lucky, I’ve carved out a niche for myself. It’s hard for anyone starting out today, but then the young can cope; you have terrific energy. And enthusiasm,’ she added as his face lit up.
‘I can write about anything too,’ he assured her. ‘I could write a piece about this room.’
That wouldn’t be difficult, it was full of character, not to speak of characters. ‘Writer’s block is another term for burn-out,’ he went on earnestly. ‘When I have nothing left to say I shall give up, do something else — like photography.’
The trouble with that was once he lost enthusiasm for writing he’d be burned out for anything else. She didn’t tell him so, he wouldn’t believe her. Instead she asked him about his present job and was wryly amused when he declared that his editor had been right, there was a different atmosphere in the far north. The only crime he’d discovered was drunken brawls outside the town’s so-called night-club and thefts from garden sheds: lawn mowers, hedge trimmers, and really, you had to laugh, the thieves were probably unemployed chaps trying to keep their gardens neat. Miss Pink held her counsel, reflecting that lawn mowers and power tools (and mountain bikes and farm bikes, even the odd flock of sheep) would be sold on — and he had forgotten the cars that were broken into during the tourist season, but then she thought that he could be nurturing the theme to meet his editor’s whim: the clean simple life of the Border country. She could go along with that.
She asked if his flat were congenial for work, thinking with pleasure of her own living-room on calm summer evenings with the swifts screaming round the church tower — and he was off again, enthusing on those quaint hidden yards, his eyes on fire: another Harald. Anne approached with the Glenlivet. He stopped in mid-flight and blinked uncertainly.
‘You’re not driving.’ Anne was indulgent and relaxed. Evidently she had decided that Perry was harmless. Across the room the girl was gesturing excitedly. Harald appeared enthralled.
‘I’m not used to single malts.’ Rick blushed, embarrassed.
‘You must let me see some of your work,’ Miss Pink said comfortably. ‘And I shall come and see your yard.’
‘They tell me the yards were constructed that way to foil Scottish marauders,’ Rick rushed in. ‘Can’t you see them?’ His eyes shone. ‘Dark winter nights, a moon, swords flashing.’
Anne shook her head, cradling the whisky bottle like a baby. ‘Sorry, Rick, but the town plan is later than that. The Act of Union was — oh, I forget, but before the yards were built, or rather, the houses round the yards. Towns much further south have yards too.’
‘All the same they are charming,’ Miss Pink pointed out. ‘There must be a great demand for the houses, I’ve seen no For Sale signs.’
‘We-ll,’ Anne drew it out, ‘they’re pretty primitive until they’re done up, and that costs a fortune. Rick’s place is a case in point. At some time it was one house, then Harald’s father had it made into two units, but it’s never been satisfactory. No sound-proofing.’
‘But you can scarcely hear the traffic,’ Miss Pink exclaimed. ‘The yards are like the churchyard: oases of peace in the centre of the town.’ She beamed at her own wording.
‘I was thinking of neighbours,’ Anne said. ‘Fortunately Edith Bland, above Rick, she has her television in the bedroom, and the telephone, so it won’t bother him in his living-room?’ She raised an eyebrow for confirmation and he nodded. ‘Anyway, you’re the last tenant.’ She turned back to Miss Pink. ‘I’m going to gut the interior and then refurbish it, make it into a comfortable house again.’
Rick, just a little under the weather, was amazed. ‘Does Edith know that?’
Anne stiffened. He felt the dr
op in temperature and blundered on: ‘She was telling me she’s going to put up hanging baskets next summer. She was talking as if she’d be there for ever.’
Anne breathed deeply. ‘My mistake,’ she said tightly. ‘Don’t mention it, whatever you do.’ She bit her lip and addressed Miss Pink. ‘Edith’s a farm widow and she whinges, you know? Everyone’s hand is against her, particularly her landlady’s. But she’ll be far better off in a new bungalow than at Plumtree Yard. It’s just that I have to be careful how I approach the subject. You won’t say anything, Rick?’
‘Of course not.’ He took a gulp of his whisky.
Miss Pink said brightly, ‘The only snag with the yards is that the houses all seem to face inwards; they must be very dark inside. Now my flat is full of sunshine for much of the day...’ She rattled on and after a few moments Anne moved back to the others.
‘She’s going to have a problem there,’ Rick muttered. ‘Edith’s an awkward old cuss and the way she tells it she reckons she has security of tenure. She’s not going to take kindly to eviction, particularly from Anne?’
‘Why particularly?’
‘I’ll tell you later. I’ll bring some of my work over tomorrow morning. It’s no trouble, my place is only the other side of the church.’
‘I’ll give you coffee. The grocer sells my favourite roast. Kelleth is quite sophisticated food-wise. It points to a high proportion of gourmets in the region.’ But he was lost in contemplation. She studied him blandly. ‘So you met Perry only today,’ she continued smoothly. ‘She’s very young — to be alone on the fells. And without a map.’ And now with a man twice her age.
‘She’s eighteen.’ He’d read her thought and he was on the defensive. ‘I rescued her,’ he added, his face softening, and suddenly quite beautiful despite the aviator spectacles.
He’d met the child only a few hours ago — time enough for an episode of a carnal nature — yet there was a look of wonder about him that had nothing to do with lust. She was amused, realising that even in her seventies she hadn’t forgotten what it was like to fall in love.
*
Isaac Dent saw them come into Plumtree Yard, walking like pale ghosts in the moonlight. He retreated, closed the door quietly and went back upstairs to the bedroom.
‘He’s brought her back with him,’ he hissed.
Edith was getting into bed. She paused, one knee on the mattress, the lamplight glinting on her plastic curlers. ‘What?’
He came closer. ‘I said he’s brought her here. She’ll be staying. Didn’t you know?’ It was an accusation.
‘I’ve got better things to do with my time than watch what he’s about.’
‘Then you better start watching. And keep your voice down. I reckon these two was with them this evening.’
‘You said she never suspected.’
‘I know she didna. Nor him. Likely, she’ll go shortly. We got nothing to fear, any road. The opposite. You talk to un, find out what’s toward. An’ watch it on the phone; you got a screech on you like an old hen.’ He stopped and listened. ‘Them’s quiet. But they didna see me, moon were in their eyes.’
‘See tha turn light out when tha goes,’ Edith said, easing down in the bed, pulling the sheet high, shutting him out.
There was a light in the ground-floor flat and the curtains were undrawn. Rick was on his feet looking down. Isaac halted in the shadow and watched. Suddenly the girl stood up. She’d been on the floor. Isaac remembered the dog then. They’d left it behind when they went to the pub, or to Nichol House. He waited a moment or two but Rick didn’t make a grab at her, instead they moved away, into the kitchen at the back. The window was open but they talked softly, he couldn’t make out the words. He went back to pick up his Land Rover in Doomgate.
‘How old is Edith?’ Perry asked as Rick handed her a saucepan.
‘Around sixty, at a guess. Big heavy type, wears curlers in bed.’ Perry gaped. ‘I know,’ he went on easily, ‘because she still has them in her hair in the morning.’
‘I can’t imagine people that age —’ Perry stopped.
‘The boy friend’s turned seventy if he’s a day. You saw him: the old shepherd who was so interested in the slanging match with the fat man.’
‘You’re kidding.’ She stared at him, then shrugged. ‘And this guy, this pensioner visits —’ She cast her eyes at the ceiling.
Rick took the milk out of the fridge and reached for a tin of cocoa. ‘Life doesn’t stop when you reach sixty,’ he told her, meaning sex.
‘Well, why aren’t they married?’
He smiled indulgently. ‘I seem to have missed something here. You’re disapproving of two old folk having it off?’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘Hell, who cares? What I mean is, why does he have to creep in on the sly like? For God’s sake, in these days?’
‘He’s probably married. I don’t know, I’ve never spoken to the old chap; all I know is he’s got some sheep at the head of Orrdale. I’ve seen him there twice.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe he followed me today. I told Edith I was going up there to take some shots of the ruins. She didn’t like it, said it showed a lack of respect.’
‘Respect for what?’
‘I assumed she meant the people who were turned out of their homes, although they’d have been a lot better off: moving to modern houses. I mean, the farms they left looked idyllic but they’d have had no electricity and no public transport. I suppose Edith’s thinking that Orrdale was part of her childhood, of history; she’d sentimentalize it, forget the primitive lifestyle and remember the good times, you know how it is.’ No, he thought, turning back to the stove, this kid didn’t know much about good times, but, given the opportunity, he’d show them to her. This evening had been a good start. She’d met nice people.
4
The dragon was guarding her lair this morning. That was how Perry thought of Mrs Fawcett although Rick said she was just over-protective where Harald was concerned. Perry didn’t think there was anything wrong with Harald, he was clever and happy (except for being sad about his Jack Russell) and he was very polite. And he liked her. When the dragon opened the door the look on her face meant she was about to be sent away but then Harald appeared and there was no question of her being dismissed. He could be stubborn.
They sat in the garden: like a bit of jungly wasteland but clean, with trees for shade and big white daisies in the tall grass. After Bags had explored he came and sat with his nose on Harald’s knee and gazed into the old chap’s eyes with that daft look of his. Harald scratched the dog’s skull where he liked being scratched.
‘We’re going to take him along the river walk,’ he told Anne when she came out with coffee.
‘No.’ She held Perry’s eye and said firmly, ‘We’re not free until after lunch. Then we can take him on the common where he can run loose.’
Harald hesitated. Perry saw that he recognised some restrictions and that this was one of them. He wasn’t to be allowed out with just herself for company, the dragon would come too. She said pleasantly to Perry, ‘It’s a beautiful day. What are you and Rick proposing to do this morning?’
‘He’s with Miss Pink.’ Perry was sulking. ‘I didn’t have nothing in mind really.’
‘Kelleth has some interesting shops, and there’s a folk museum.’
‘They don’t let dogs in them places.’ The street grammar was deliberate, a gesture of defiance.
‘Leave him with me,’ Harald said. ‘Much nicer for him in the garden than going round the town. You go off and enjoy yourself and this afternoon we’ll give him a good run, and we can come back here...’ He shot a glance at his wife.
‘We’ll see you at one thirty then,’ Anne said smoothly, and Perry knew it was an order. Anyway, who’d want to stay where they weren’t wanted?
*
Miss Pink was filling a kettle at the sink when the girl drifted through the churchyard, the sunshine brilliant on her head. Rick had told her Perry was taking the dog to Nichol H
ouse and she guessed what had happened. There was such a forlorn air about the child that Anne must have turned her away. Really, there was no harm in her, and she amused Harald. What was wrong with Anne?
She returned to the living-room with the coffee tray. Rick was leafing through a copy of Place Names of Cumberland. ‘What did you mean,’ she asked, ‘when you said the woman in the flat above you wouldn’t take kindly to eviction, particularly from Anne?’
‘They’re both from Orrdale. They grew up together. Didn’t you know?’
‘I know nothing about her. I’ve known Harald for donkey’s years but I hadn’t visited him before this time, and even now he’s said nothing about his wife’s background.’
‘He’s her second husband. She was married to a farmer in Orrdale. But I didn’t know until last night that the farm pictured in the book about the flooding was her home, and I don’t know now if she means her married home or the place where she grew up.
‘What happened to her first husband?’
‘He disappeared.’
Miss Pink stared. Rick grinned. ‘Edith’s words — my neighbour. I asked her what she meant, what was behind it, but she just looked at me and said very deliberately: "No one knows." Couldn’t get another word out of her. Isn’t that frustrating? People drop exciting hints and that’s as far as it goes.’
‘What you do then is go to someone else and quote the last piece of gossip, which will lead on to the next. It’s a matter of continuity.’
‘Oh, my! That’s brilliant. You do know your stuff, don’t you? I’ll try to strike up a conversation with the boy friend. There’s this old shepherd who visits Edith. It’s weird — ’ He stopped, abashed. Miss Pink could be the same age as the shepherd.
She saw his embarrassment and reverted to the original subject. ‘So Anne will have obtained a divorce eventually,’ she mused. ‘And then she married Harald. In the meantime she was running the farm on her own? But she’s a powerful woman, she’d have had no trouble.’
‘It wasn’t like that. Edith wouldn’t talk about why the husband went except that it was around the time that the water was rising and people moving to other farms. Anne never went to the one her husband had been allocated but went to live in a cottage on the Fawcetts’ estate. She was pregnant at the time.’